


It's Three in the Morning and I'm Trying to Change Your Mind

by afragileheart



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Medication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 20:56:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4236336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afragileheart/pseuds/afragileheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey knows the routine pretty well at this point. Ian calls him whenever he's on a new drug, trying to forget who he is and what's happening inside his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Three in the Morning and I'm Trying to Change Your Mind

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a lyric from the song "Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?" by the Arctic Monkeys. The song inspired this fic and I thought the lyric fit it well! 
> 
> It's set post season 5, and Ian ran away from the Southside with Monica following the breakup.

It's been eight months and yet they still can't go a week or two without talking. It burns him, the pain lasting until the next time he hears Ian's voice and it hits him again, harder and harder each time. 

"I'm getting better Mick, I really am," a groggy voice tells him one morning, phone pressed up to his ear. Mickey knows the routine pretty well at this point. Ian calls him whenever he's on a new drug, trying to forget who he is and what's happening inside his head. Mickey was shocked when he received the first call, his mouth gaping as he struggled to respond. He eventually gathered himself enough to ask Ian to come home, promising him that they could get through this together. Ian replied that he didn't need anyone except himself. He told Mickey that he didn't want anyone to help him, he was taking care of himself on his own terms. 

Mickey knew firsthand the issues of self-medicating. For him, it just exacerbated all the problems he was already experiencing. He had participated in it for years, using alcohol as his weapon against the demons inside his head and all around him. He drank to muffle the voices telling him that he couldn't be his true self, that he wasn't good enough, that he didn't deserve to find happiness. He returned to the bottle and tried drowning himself in whiskey when Ian first left him, but he had already learned that trying to forget him would only make the pain worse. 

Ian first brought up the topic of self-medicating while they were lying in bed, a sense of ease enveloping them both. Ian was smiling softly, intertwining their fingers with Mickey pressed into his side. He assumed Ian was just thinking out loud and dismissed the comment, too content to hear the severity of his words. Mickey didn't think twice about it that day, and pushed the conversation out of his mind. 

Ian refused to let it go, and he brought it up several times after that day. He was serious about the idea of self-medicating, and he even mentioned it to his family. They brushed it off, claiming that Ian was just talking out of his ass. It made Mickey uneasy, and worry began to gnaw at him. But each time he tried to talk Ian out of it, he got pissed and stormed away, huffing that Mickey wasn't his keeper. 

Mickey was especially furious at himself for not being able to help Ian, and he blames himself for not being more forceful in stopping his actions. His mind constantly races with unwelcome thoughts and unanswered questions, and he finds himself envisioning different scenarios that end with Ian by his side. 

His cell phone feels heavy in his hand, and a noise on the other line snaps him back to reality. 

"Ian," Mickey breathes into the phone, the emotion of hearing his voice overwhelming him, "What are you on now?"

"Dunno. Monica gave me some good shit. I feel fucking great. My brain doesn't feel funny anymore," Ian replies. Mickey has to bite his cheek to keep from screaming. 

"Maybe you should come back so I can try it too," Mickey says lightly, careful not to push Ian away. He takes on a new approach with Ian each time, attempting to lure him back to the Southside. Anger never worked, so he decided to act like the person he once was, before their relationship was about more than booze, drugs, and getting off. 

Ian hums in response, not really acknowledging what Mickey said. Their conversations never last long, and Ian hangs up after a few minutes. A silence falls over them, neither knowing what wavelength the other is on, or where they stand with each other. Mickey is afraid of losing Ian, and Ian is afraid of losing himself. 

Mickey decides to shatter the silence, "So whatcha been up to? You seeing anyone?" He doesn't know why he asks. Rather, he doesn't want to admit it. Mickey is terrified that while he's been wallowing in heartbreak, Ian has found someone else to fuck until they're both breathless, trace his freckles, and above all, to love. 

"I didn't call you to fucking make smalltalk," Ian scoffs, attitude shifting from pleasant to cold and harsh. Mickey had become accustomed to his changes in attitude, but at that moment he didn't give a shit about Ian's mood. He was more focused on the fact that Ian didn't answer his question. The lack of a response usually meant yes. And fuck all if Mickey was going to accept that. 

"I don't know what you want from me, Ian! Every fucking thing I say is wrong! Why do you even keep calling me then, you asshole? Can't fucking face me in person?" Mickey seethes, chest heaving. Wrong. This is all wrong. He just wants to heal. He wants the gaping holes in his chest to close up. He wants the pain to end. He wants to stop seeing flashes of red and freckles everywhere he looks. 

He wants Ian to come home. 

As expected, the line goes dead. Mickey hurls his phone across the room, frustration and sadness engulfing him. Everything was fucked. He glances at the Jack Daniels on his nightstand, the bottle dusty as a result of Mickey's attempt to stop trying to forget. As he reaches for the bottle, he thinks that sometimes forgetting was worth the consequences. 

...

Mickey hasn't heard from Ian since their last phone call over two months ago. Countless empty cans and bottles litter his room. Mickey huffs out a laugh as he surveys his surroundings; old habits die hard. 

His phone rings and he almost doesn't answer. He doesn't even check the caller ID, he doesn't fucking care anymore. There's no point.

"Yeah?" He asks gruffly, picking up an almost empty can of beer on his nightstand; a cruel reminder of the lessons he has chosen to forget.

There's silence on the other line, and Mickey is about to hang up when a whisper makes his heart stop. 

"Mick, can you come get me? I want to come home." 

He tosses the can and starts running.

**Author's Note:**

> A special thanks to Petronelle and Rosie for their patience and encouragement. I could not have done this without you!


End file.
